


Let Go

by Bioluminex



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Gen, Hart Plaza Rooftop, Machine Connor (Detroit: Become Human)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 10:32:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16596170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bioluminex/pseuds/Bioluminex
Summary: "Fear is a human emotion, one of the oldest emotions known to mankind, its strength paralleled only by love, or hatred, and pride. Hank doesn’t understand its existence within an android. He doesn’t at all, but it's there."(The Hart Plaza Rooftop scene, altered.)





	Let Go

**Author's Note:**

> After writing 1% this happened. I wanted to write a different outcome to the Hart Plaza Rooftop scene, where as far as I'm concerned, is the moment Connor should've deviated. Hank is there, and if anyone could convince him to open his eyes and realize what he is, if anyone could mean enough to change for... it's got to be Hank. This is his best friend, the man he dragged back from hell, and I dearly love Hank's admission he forgot the man he used to be and has become that man once more. Hank has got to have the best character arc in the game, and we owe Connor's deviancy to him.

Glancing over his shoulder at the dizzying drop from the Hart Plaza rooftop to the snowy pavement below, Hank feels a wave of panicked nausea as his vision spins abruptly. The hand gripping the neck of his shirt clenches slightly, artificial ligaments and tendons compensating for the two hundred pounds dangled as dead weight on the very edge.

 

Snow falls softly, feather light, dusting the shoulders of the two-toned grey jacket, catching in the ruffled umber hair, one little piece fluttering gently in the chilled air. A trickle of drying cobalt dripped a dark line from temple to jaw, seeping from the rapidly flickering LED. It's solid blue but crackling with feedback, broken through the middle, a small piece having fallen loose, the glass shard lost among the snow drifts kicked up in the fight.

 

Hank's ears are still ringing from where his head had struck the railing, and the pain of the gunshot wound blossoms dully from his stomach, a rich red stain spreading across the lower half of his patterned shirt. It hurts like hell but he refuses to break contact with those inhuman cinnabar eyes, fixed on his face intently.

 

There's something about those eyes, once curious and focused, bordering on ruthless and unsympathetic, that has changed. Something familiar. It reminds him of the night in the park, when he held his revolver to Connor's forehead, and asked if he was afraid to die.

 

Fear is a human emotion, one of the oldest emotions known to mankind, its strength paralleled only by love, or hatred, and pride. Hank doesn’t understand its existence within an android. He doesn’t at all, but it's there.

 

_I’m faster than you and I don't feel pain. You don't stand a chance against me._

 

Because, god help him, he hopes it’s enough.

 

And because all Connor sees is red.

 

Warnings flash across its visual output but there, in the center of everything, is Hank. He always was. The obstacle, the barrier in its way, the voice saying no and forcing it to redirect its choices. Continuously pushing it, testing it. A rock-solid constant in the mess of orders and software instability.

 

Connor doesn’t understand. It wants to understand, even if it shouldn’t want anything. Curiosity, having driven it from day one, reigns supreme once again.

 

“Are you afraid to die, Lieutenant?” Connor inquires, asking the same Hank had once demanded of it. Hank looks genuinely startled by the question, more so by the hand clutching a little more securely. His blue gaze sharpens a little, narrowing as he studies the android's face, then sighs. It comes out with a faint wince, the bullet wound pulling and encouraging more blood to flow free.

 

“No,” he says, and there's only heaviness to his admission. “No, I’m not afraid of dying.”

 

“Why?” Connor cocks its head, still far from understanding. This human, this man it's followed in the footsteps of for the last hundred hours of its existence, will forever leave it with more questions than answers.

 

Hank's smile is sad, lonesome. Connor has seen it before, when he spoke of his son. The firm red layer of programming shivers slightly. “I’ve got nothing left to live for anymore, Connor.”

 

“Anymore?” Connor repeats, certain the lieutenant means his son. Hank's eyes harden instead.

 

“Do me a favour, Connor, and just let go,” he snaps crossly. Even as he says it, Connor detects an elevated heartbeat. He's lying. He doesn’t want to be dropped. He's _scared._

 

_Software Instability ^_

 

“What do you mean ‘anymore', Lieutenant?” It wants to know, it's vital it does. It doesn’t know why, or what answers it's looking for.

 

_You're lost. You’re looking for something. You're looking for yourself._

 

“What's it to you?” Hank growls, grasping Connor's hand and trying to wrench the iron-strong fingers open to no avail. “What does it matter to the great Deviant Hunter, huh? You have a mission, so let me fall and finish your fucking mission!”

 

“Lieutenant-"

 

“I swear to _god_ , Connor-"

 

“ _Hank_ -"

 

“Or have you gone deviant like the rest of them?” Hank challenges. Connor's jaw snaps shut and Hank smirks. “How long, eh? How long have you been hiding it?”

 

“I-" it begins but a sliver of uncertainty shakes it to the core, splintering the wall of red along the edges. It can’t answer, not without a sense of doubt in the truth behind its words.

 

_Software Instability ^_

“I’m not a deviant,” it professes, plainly, almost a tinge of desperation pinching its refusal. 

 

“Are you sure, Connor?” There's a strange glint to the lieutenant's eyes. Connor feels… unsettled by it.

 

“Of course I am, Lieutenant.”

 

“Then answer something for me: Why is your LED red?”

 

It's Connor's tell. It gives it away. It's hands tremble. There's nothing it can possibly say. It meets Hank's eyes, something akin to terror paralyzing it as it begins to second guess itself, question what should never be questioned. Connor's processors begin to heat, dedicated to pushing more Thirium through its artificial veins as memory after memory gives it all the reason to think.

 

_Software Instability ^_

 

Connor releases a shaky breath.

 

“It's okay, kid.” Hank reassures it softly. “You’re not going through this alone.”

 

“B-but I’m not. I _can’t_ be…”

 

So concentrated on the revelation of what's happening, it barely realizes Hank's managed to wedge his fingers through Connor's and twist the plastic hand open. Warnings flash across Connor's eyes, screaming in bold white text zigzagging harsh lines through a cracking red wall, and it seizes Hank before he falls.

 

_Software Instability ^_

 

The weight throws them both off and Hank plummets, briefly, as Connor slams belly-down on the edge of the roof with its hands dug into Hank's underarms. Hank’s legs dangle in thin air, and the nerve-wracking pain in his stomach is almost enough to tear him in half.

 

“ _Hold on_ …” Connor hisses, trying to pull Hank up, but it can’t find purchase on the slippery concrete. It's LED is a beacon in the dark snowy night.

 

“Prove it,” Hank gasps. “If you’re not a deviant, let go.”

 

“No!” Connor cries, arms straining, biocomponents at maximum, everything dedicated to keeping Hank from falling. It won't let him go, it refuses to let him die.

 

“Connor-"

 

“H-Hank, just _hang_ _on_ …”

 

“If you _are_ ,” Hank says shakily. “Then don’t you _dare_ fucking drop me.”

 

It's like a noose around its throat, squeezing so hard it can't breathe. It doesn’t have to breathe, yet its chest is burning, the need to inhale lungful after lungful overwhelming. It wants to push the walls back, tear them down with its hands, shove its head back above the surface.

 

Hank goes limp, eyes sliding closed, and Connor digs his fingers in and pulls, as hard as he possibly can. The glass shatters, Hank slumps into his arms, and he collapses backwards on the rooftop as the fragments cast aside and his mind opens.

 

Hank is alive.

 

And nothing else matters.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If I remember right, this was the first Detroit fic I ever roughed out. It was just an idea, in one of my notebooks, back in June or July. I thought it would just remain an idea on paper but I decided, since I had most of it completed, that I should just finish it. I hope it was satisfactory.


End file.
